


Dusk's Dawning

by felinefelicitations



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Love, Love Languages, M/M, POV Second Person, Polyamorous Character, Single POV, Tenderness, Unconditional Love, Waiting, than lit said mortal customs aren't his don't at me, vague background Meg/Than/Zag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:20:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28470780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felinefelicitations/pseuds/felinefelicitations
Summary: You work together, off and on, for years and decades and centuries; you meet the dawn and there he is, scowling as the sun makes his way across the sky and you want, every time, to kiss the dip of his eyebrows. You don’t; you laugh, instead, you say something trivial, trite, because it makes him snort a quiet laugh.That’s the sound you start your day with for years, decades, centuries—Death’s quiet little laugh, forced out of him, as you take over where he left off.
Relationships: Hermes/Thanatos (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 62





	Dusk's Dawning

**Author's Note:**

> Happy new year, have a sunrise to start it off right.

You work together, off and on, for years and decades and centuries; you meet the dawn and there he is, scowling as the sun makes his way across the sky and you want, every time, to kiss the dip of his eyebrows. You don’t; you laugh, instead, you say something trivial, trite, because it makes him snort a quiet chuckle.

That’s the sound you start your day with for years and decades and centuries—Death’s quiet little laugh, forced out of him, as you take over where he left off.

He’s a fixture; that’s all. You do so love a fixture. His brother’s a fixture, too, that groaning boatman that you have a thousand bets with, some of which have paid off and most of which haven’t. You don’t mind; it’s the thrill of the gamble more than the winning that matters.

There’s a dawn you find him sitting, legs dangling off a cliff. He’s slouched and squinting at the morning, chin resting on his hands.

“I don’t see what’s so good about this,” he says and it’s a statement but it lilts, up, up, and you—you—

You stop. Just a moment.

You stand next to him and watch the sun you usually keep at your back because you love the warmth of it, the promise and reminder of your own home you fly back to less than you should but still enough. You stand there, a moment, and you watch the gold and orange break and set the clouds on fire.

“It’s just another star,” you tell him. “You like those, don’t you?”

(He does. He loves stars; sometimes, if you linger past sunset, you catch him looking up, that little secret of a smile he saves just for his mother, all reverence. You know that feeling, too—it’s in your breast when you pause, look up at the sun, your smile turning true.)

“Too close for me,” he says. He sits up, tugs his hood further down on his head. “See you, Hermes.”

He vanishes. You pick up where he left off.

******

You work together, off and on, for years and decades and centuries; night unfolds her cloak across the heavens and there he is, scythe silver and curving as slight as the smile on his lips. You want to kiss the corner of his mouth, see if that smile might tilt up further; you don’t. You say something trivial, trite, and he chuckles a quiet laugh and crows press their feet at the corners of hs eyes.

That’s the sound you end your day with for years, decades, centuries. Death’s laugh, given freely.

He’s a fixture, and you do so love a fixture. Like his brother, that groaning boatman that helps you smuggle into the Underworld all the goods your uncle loves but refuses to admit he loves, those light brilliant nectars and heavy ambrosias, the jangle of boon and blessing and family that he still aches for even though he needs the distance from them. You understand distance; look at you, running every day, forever, so long as you can.

There’s a dusk you find Thanatos, holding a child and singing sweet. There’s snow falling, dampening the noise, but still, you hear the singing and you follow it and there he is, singing a child into her quiet rest and out of the cold that hasn’t ended in too long.

You wait for that last exhale, the soul flitting free....

“I don’t see why this has gone on so long,” he says, and you watch that child’s soul land on his head as he rises, body in his arms.

“Fear is like that,” you say, because Demeter’s long since turned to brittle rage to mask the truth of her terror.

He snorts, but it’s not a laugh.

You help him with the rites; you give him the gold to place on her tongue, because he never thinks of payment.

“You don’t have to stay,” he says, and he’s right. You don’t. The sun set long ago, it’s dark, and the only light is the glitter of the stars above your head, so distant they cannot warm your back, your shoulders.

You stay anyway, even if it’s not your time of day.

“Thank you, Hermes,” he says, and he doesn’t vanish this time.

******

You work together for years and decades and centuries and then one day there’s no laugh offered and no chuckle, just him, furious. You’ve never seen him furious and it reminds you of the sun when he should be all stars.

You could say something trivial, trite, and instead you grab the edge of his himation. He doesn’t look back—he’s smart—but he pauses.

“What happened?” you ask, because he’s a fixture, because you do so love a fixture.

(Because you want to cup his face in your hands and press feather kisses across his jaw, his cheeks, his eyes, because you want to be sure you’ll hear that laugh again, that chuckle; you want to hear his laugh forever, his joy that starts and ends your day.)

He doesn’t have to answer; he does.

“Zagreus left.”

“Not even a goodbye?” you ask, but you know, because you know Zagreus—a god so young he doesn’t yet understand there’s time, forever, sprawled out; a god all blood and life struggling to carve out his own place in a pantheon thick with gods.

Thanatos does not answer, and that’s answer enough.

(You want to pull Death into your arms and soothe; you want to press feather kisses across his jaw, his cheeks, his forehead; you want to bless him, but he is an ending and your gifts are all for the living and their red, red blood they spill for you.)

“Let go, Hermes,” he says.

You don’t want to.

“Might think about doing that yourself,” you say.

You let go.

******

This has all gone long enough, you think. The cold and your uncle hiding away from family he pretends he does not love, all these broken lines of communication.

(You didn’t care until Death stopped laughing; you’ve always been selfish.)

Zagreus’ blood is red enough; lucky, that. Luckier still you know what Nyx is up to—you know who her stars glitter for because you know how to read the stars.

(You’ve spent years and decades and centuries watching the one she set to guide souls home.)

You don’t mention it to your family; they don’t need to know. You just want to speed things along.

(You want that fixture back; you do so love a fixture.)

******

It’s a sunrise and there he is, sitting on a cliff, legs dangling off and slouched, chin in his hands. He’s squinting and next to him, a crystal bottle with sunlight trapped inside.

There’s a feast soon. You’re looking forward to it—you want to see how the night and her lovers spin their tale. You are hoping it will make you laugh, and you are hoping it will finally put an end to the cold.

You stop by him and watch the sun rise. It’s different, when it kisses your face and not your back.

“He says he likes me,” Thanatos says. “I’m not sure what I feel.”

“Why the worry?” you ask. “Live a little.”

He snorts, and it is almost, almost a laugh.

”I don’t see what’s so good about all that,” he says.

You don’t have to answer. You don’t have to stay. But you want that laugh back, you want to soothe a pulse trembling fear.

“Young gods like that don’t throw themselves at your feet every day,” you say. It will make him laugh again.

It does; he chuckles and you savour it, a sound you’ve missed.

“I suppose not.” He sighs and straightens and pulls his hood down. Picks up the bottle of ambrosia and tilts it in his hands. “Thank you, Hermes.”

“Of course,” you say.

******

It’s been months and years and decades. There was a feast, and there were lies and laughter and you enjoyed them both. Death is endlessly caught up and confused by his lovers both, which makes you laugh more than the story of pomegranate seeds did.

Always there is the start and end of your day where his laughter is just for you. You do so love a fixture.

It’s a sunset and you’re sitting on a cliff, legs dangling, leaned back on your hands and watching night unfold her cloak over creation. There’s a bell and then the sound of Thanatos dropping from the air, bare feet over the ground. He stands next to you, at your shoulder; you don’t look up, but you know he’s squinting at the sun.

“Bit early for you,” you say, because you’ve had centuries and millennia and aeons of starting and ending your days to his laughter, set your clock not by the sun but a different star.

(People like to think you rush; you don’t. You have all the time in the world, and you want every second of it to be full of joy, as much as you can find.)

“Is it?” Thanatos asks. “I feel like I’m late. Is this seat taken?”

You glance up; in his hand, liquid sunlight trapped in crystal.

Your smile goes wider, true, and you shake your head.

He sits by you, legs dangling off. He is staring at the ambrosia in hand; his eyebrows dipping down as he scowls at it, as he worries at words, and you want, as always, to kiss the dip and soothe.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admits.

You do—you reach over, catch his cheek, and turn his face to yours. He’s still scowling, but under that is unsteady fear, uncertainty. His mouth is the slightest little frown and you finally lean over and kiss the corner. You keep your eyes open, watch his flutter shut as he sighs, relaxes, and you kiss his cheek. You kiss the lids of his eyes, his brow; you slide your hand down to cup his jaw and he finally wraps an arm around your shoulders as you lean forehead to forehead, sunlight vanishing below the horizon.

“Sorry,” he breathes. “For taking so long.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say. “You’re right on time by my watch.”

He laughs, a little huff of air that brushes your lips; you kiss him because you can, because you want to, because you’ve got an arm around his waist and he’s got his arm around your shoulders and right now, the both of you are in that space that is only yours, that has always been only yours.

You tap the stopper of the bottle in his lap.

“Gonna share that?”

He smiles against your lips.

“Thought I might.”

“No cups.”

“Do we need them?”

“No,” you say, and kiss him again.

The sun’s long set, but you’ve got it in a bottle and you’re both drinking it, leaned into each other. A drink, a kiss, memory and hope and light flooding you both, temples pressed together and a thousand stars unfolded overheard.

You think about saying you love him, and tap his nose instead; listen to him snort annoyance. You have forever to say it; you don’t need to now, in these first few moments of his dawn.

You doze off leaned into each other, legs dangling off the cliff; it’s the sun that wakes you, breaking the horizon. He presses his face into your shoulder, then turns his head to look again. You can’t see his face, but you know the scowl on it. You rest your cheek against his head and kick your feet, watching the clouds catch fire.

“I suppose it’s not so bad,” he says.

You catch one of his hands, rub your thumb across the back.

“You're jealous he’s brighter than you.”

It gets a laugh, forced out, a little snort of annoyance and affection; it’s a new day, and you’ll need to pick up where you left off the day before, but that’s all right—it always has been. You have all the time in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, as ever, for reading <3 Even if it's just a keysmash, I'd love to know what you thought


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